Cookin' With Cougars

For the record, I do my own laundry. It's best I start the story there.

I knew what I signed up for when registering for a cooking class in the city. Intended to facilitate new connections among Chicagoans, the gourmet cooking party attracted about 20 people into a room outfitted with gourmet kitchen equipment on the lower level of the Belden-Stratford hotel in Lincoln Park. The crowd was markedly divided. Most of the men were in their late-20s and the women easily in their mid-30s. While I was watching Saved by the Bell after school, these women were unwinding after work with episodes of Murphy Brown.

After pouring a glass of riesling from the many bottles of wine, I positioned myself next to a group and suavely inserted myself in their conversation.

Instead of a business card, I think I should get some baseball cards printed. They'll have a flattering photo of me, preferably an action shot, on the front with my name in a block font; then on the back, all my important stats: age, weight, height, likes/dislikes, college info, job duties, allergies.  It'll be a hybrid of my resume, and featured talking points and anecdotes from my life. This way, I can just give my card and avoid the interminable back and forth of who I am and what I do. Not to knock these conversations--I consider myself an adept conversationalist--sometimes they are interesting. But all too often they are two and half minutes per person of blah. I­­­'d prefer to punch it up and go straight to how you got that scar or discussions of Jersey Shore and other things of consequence.

I started talking with a blonde woman, perhaps in her mid/late-30s. She introduced me to the rest of the trio. We covered the basics and found a shared youth in the western suburbs of Chicago. Then again, I'm not sure how much of it overlapped. I have to give the woman credit for the next question she asked me.

"When did you graduate high school?" she unashamedly asked. Direct, but slightly veiled from asking about my birthday.

I'm not delusional. I am young and look it. There's only so much I can do aside from putting shoe polish in my hair to achieve the coveted silver fox look. A dress shirt adds a year. Matching socks: plus 3 months. Beard: 6-12 months. I did my best to shake-off the college-bum-chic look that I typically rock at my uber casual office. Consequently, I paid the price in the cubicle minefield when fielding questions from coworkers like "When's the interview?" and "What's her name?"

Weighing the options of lying, dodging the question or being honest, I responded truthfully and got to see her nearly choke on her glass of red and then exclaim "OH GOD!" I'm not opposed to this outburst, but I prefer to not hear it in public.

This was but the beginning to a night of conversations with those who lived through WWII. Apparently asking a woman what it was like to wait in bread lines during the depression is considered insulting, especially if she's in her 30s. Who knew?

After a quick tutorial of cooking techniques, we divided into groups to make gourmet dishes. My group was entrusted with making Chocolate Dulce De Leche Shortbread Bars. Having watched enough Food Network to be on their programming board, I took on the role of head chef. After all, I was born with an offset spatula in my hand. It's always interesting to me to see who takes the lead, especially when there are far too many cooks in the kitchen. I went last year and the same thing happened. Like sifting the dry ingredients, each group always has someone who rises to the top. In that analogy I'm not sure if I'm the clump of flour that gets left in the sieve or the sifted flour. Maybe I'm the sieve. We knocked out the recipe and then milled around surveying the other groups.

A few bottles of wine later, the dishes were done and each group artfully arranged their apps on a platter then waited for the praise from the instructors and other aspiring chefs. All the dishes turned out scrumptious. My personal favorite was the shrimp/crab salad. 

But far superior to any of the food was when a friend of the woman I spoke with earlier in the evening asked me if I live in the suburbs because of family. I said yes. She responded by asking me if my mom does my laundry. In hindsight, I should have asked her what it was like growing up without washing machines.